Yet another of my great spiritual teachers has died. Buddhist monk, peace activist, author, and teacher Thich Nhat Hanh died today at Tu Hieu Temple in Hue, Vietnam. I have found wisdom in so many of his books, but it is his The Miracle of Mindfulness that has become almost a daily guide. I discovered it sometime in my four-year wait for a new heart after being put on the transplant list following my second cardiac arrest in my 30s. In that time of living with the ever-present fear of sudden cardiac death, it probably saved my life, and certainly my sanity and spiritual well-being.
During that time, I would try traditional meditations that required me to focus on my breath, but as every irregular heartbeat intruded on my breathing and invaded my awareness, that practice became more an exercise in increasing anxiety. And then the miracle – mindfulness. While many mindfulness exercises do focus on the breath, Thay’s book opened up so many more possibilities. Washing the dishes, chopping carrots, cleaning, reading a bedtime story to my son all became exercises in mindfulness. “Wash the dishes relaxingly, as though each bowl is an object of contemplation. Consider each bowl as sacred. . . . Consider washing the dishes the most important thing in life.” Consider washing the dishes the most important thing in life. That line has stuck with me, reminding me that whatever I am doing, whoever I am with, is the most important thing in my life at that moment in time. Being fully present to the actions, the thoughts, the surroundings, the people, the many beings in any given moment has been a precious gift in my life. I don’t always remember. I have to remind myself rather continually. But every time I do, I am immediately more centered, and certainly more present not only to my own life, but to the other people and beings in my life.
Of all the mindfulness exercises, the one that was most helpful to me at that time, and continues to be, is mindful walking. I used to be a very fast walker. I loved a brisk pace. But when my heart, and the defibrillator attached to it that would shock me if my heart went too fast, commanded me to slow down, mindful walking turned what had felt like an impediment into a gift of awareness. Walking oh so slowly, I noticed the feel of the ground beneath my feet, the sound of the wind in the trees, the warmth of the sun on my back, all the variety of mosses, ferns, and grasses that had previously been a sea of green, the particular bends and twists of tree trunks, the songs of spring warblers and so many varieties of frogs, the patterns in the rocks, the way the snow squeaks at certain temperatures, the shifting shapes of clouds, the sweetness of my child’s voice delighting in the day as we walked together. A miracle indeed.
Years later, mindfulness exercises became a regular part of my Women and Spirituality classes. I would bring in a trayful of fruit – segments of oranges or tangerines, slices of apple and banana, grapes, and always the classic raisin, along with some dark and milk chocolate. Each student would choose one thing to eat, slowly, with full attentiveness to the smell, taste, sound, and texture of the fruit or chocolate as they chewed, sucked, swirled, and swallowed the piece. When they were finished, they would share all they had discovered, things they had never before noticed in something they had eaten routinely – the way the taste of an apple changed from the pulp to the skin, the way the pulp of the orange lingered long after the juice trickled down their throat, how long bits of raisin could stay stuck in the crevices of their gums, the silky velvet of a slowly melting piece of chocolate. What everyone noticed the most was how full and satisfied they felt after eating one small piece of fruit. Another miracle.
I also would ring a bell at random times throughout the class, and then ask the students where they were. About a third would be present in the class, but the rest were somewhere else -- reviewing a conversation they had had earlier in the day, thinking about a homework assignment they had to do, looking forward to the weekend; some were hundreds of miles away or ten years in the past. Students would laugh or demure self-consciously about not paying attention in class. Many were startled to discover how often they were not actually “in class.” How many of us are either in the past or the future, or someplace else entirely in any given moment of the day? Yet it is here, in this present moment, that we are fully alive to the miracles happening all around us. At this moment, as I write, miracles abound – the way each vein of the poinsettia leaves are illuminated in the sun, the way the snow cushions the earth in a peaceful softness, the way the sun pouring through the window can warm me even on this subzero morning, the tenderness that arises as I watch my dog soundly sleeping curled up in his chair, that the tapping of my fingers on this keyboard creates shapes on a screen that have meanings, and that I can share them with others by sending them on invisible waves of energy through the atmosphere.
The practice of mindfulness has given me a gift of centeredness and calm that I can draw upon at those times when I’m feeling scattered, unfocused, or anxious. It has made me a better teacher, a better listener, and hopefully a better friend. It has given me precious moments that might otherwise have slipped away unnoticed. For all of this, I am grateful.
All this week, ceremonies in honor of Thich Nhat Hanh will be held at Hue Temple in Vietnam and at Plum Village, the monastery Thich Nhat Hanh founded while living in exile in France. All are invited to join the services via livestream, and to engage each day in memorial practices. One of the practices for today is a walking meditation, “walking with Thay, and connecting to our own and Thay’s unborn and undying nature.” Today, I will walk with mindfulness and gratitude for all the ways that Thich Nhat Hanh’s generous sharing has centered my being, deepened my awareness, and awakened me to walk in wonder.
Notes
Hanh, Thich Nhat. The Miracle of Mindfulness, Rider Books, 1991.